


raising our glass ('til we're fixed from the inside)

by CivilWhere



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alice and Eliot get drunk, Alice and Eliot will not let that stand though, Bonding, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Drinking, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Episode: s04e13 No Better To Be Safe Than Sorry, and plot a rescue mission, but we reject the outcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 13:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20228608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CivilWhere/pseuds/CivilWhere
Summary: Alice is skimming her fourth book of the day and letting her third cup of coffee grow cold when Eliot finds her."I was thinking," he says, like he's picking back up in the middle of a conversation that she's pretty sure she wasn't there for the beginning of, "we should get drunk together."------Alice and Eliot get drunk, plan Quentin's rescue, and figure out what comes next.





	raising our glass ('til we're fixed from the inside)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladybonehollows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybonehollows/gifts).

Alice is skimming her fourth book of the day and letting her third cup of coffee grow cold when Eliot finds her. 

"I was thinking," he says, like he's picking back up in the middle of a conversation that she's pretty sure she wasn't there for the beginning of, "we should get drunk together."

She closes the heavy Romanian volume on resurrection in front of her and looks up at him. "It's two in the afternoon."

"And a Tuesday," Eliot replies, rolling his eyes. "Let's go." 

There are at least a dozen more massive tomes she wants to get through, and several experts she's waiting to hear back from, and besides, it _is_ two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, but for some reason Alice can't explain, she finds herself taking Eliot's offered hand and following him out of the apartment and into the city. 

They hit five overpriced and mostly empty bars before Eliot declares Upper West Side bars "tragic" and insists they go back to the apartment to drink. She doesn't point out that his disappointment is probably somewhat related to the whole ‘time and day of the week’ thing. She's been trying different cocktails at each bar, including something called a Mind Eraser that had been both sweet and effective, so she's pretty amiable. 

Her time as a Niffin did something strange to her tolerance, and then her time depressed and achingly alone did something entirely predictable to her tolerance, so she can hold her own now, but things are floaty and soft in a nice way that she hasn't felt since Quentin's death. So when Eliot opens the door of the apartment with a flourish and tugs her by the hand into a spin and then dips her, she giggles high and light, like maybe she'll be happy again some day. 

And maybe, she thinks, she’s done waiting. 

"Hey, so. How are we going to get him back?" she asks, flopping down onto the sofa while Eliot goes to the bar cart to make them drinks. It's the first time either of them has spoken about Quentin since the bonfire-slash-funeral, but she knows what he was looking for—and didn't find—in Fillory, and she's seen him eyeing the mountains of books on resurrection and defying death that she's filled the apartment with. Plus, he's the only one who hasn't told her, with varying degrees of tact, that she's wasting her time. 

Eliot brings over two cut crystal glasses with amber liquid in them. She takes a sip of the one he hands her and it tastes of apples and sugar and the low burn she's come to enjoy. 

"What makes you think I'm trying to bring him back?" Eliot asks. Sober, she'd probably huff at him for trying to deny it, but now she recognizes it as the last stand of his self defense. And because she's well on her way to drunk, she doesn't feel bad barreling right through it. 

"Because you're in love with him," she answers. "I'm also in love with him. And it's what I'm doing. So. That's what we should do." 

Eliot knocks back his drink and does a half-hearted tut that nonetheless brings a trail of liquid neatly across the room and into the waiting glass. 

“Yes, well.” He looks down at his hands. “I'm not sure how."

Deciding she needs more fortification if she’s going to deal with suddenly maudlin Eliot, Alice finishes hers as well and holds her empty glass out toward him. He looks unimpressed but fills it anyway. 

If she knew how, she wouldn’t have stacks of books piled up in her bedroom and the kitchen and next to the living room sofa. She would be more involved in the Library renovations Kady is overseeing, or the quests the rest of their friends have found themselves on. She wouldn’t still be here; she’d be down there, dragging Quentin back into this world. 

And maybe… maybe that’s it. She laughs at the simplicity of it but shares the idea anyway. 

"We should just… go get him. You know? Just show up and tell Hades and Penny and the rest of those _fucks_ that we're taking him home."

Eliot’s laugh still sounds half bitter, but he’s looking up at her now, and she thinks that’s an improvement, so she keeps going. "And then we'll bring him back. And—and show everyone they're wrong."

“That easy?” he asks. 

"Well, it probably won’t be _that_ easy. But there's precise… president… prece—it's been done before. Orpheus."

Head tilted to the side, Eliot stares at her for a moment before swallowing the last of his drink and setting the glass down on the coffee table. He adjusts his body so he’s facing her more directly, and then nods. “Go on.” 

The idea is only just coming together in her mind, but it feels right to share it with Eliot, newly formed though it may be. “I mean, Hades let him try to get Eurydice back, and we’re way smarter than he was, probably. And definitely better at magic."

Eliot leans forward to bump his knee against hers. "You're really good at magic,” he says, and she can tell he’s getting close to as drunk as she is by the pressing sincerity slipping into his voice. “And you know what? So am I."

“We're _great_ at it. Quentin is lucky. I don't mean to be weird but—we're both very, you know, attractive. So. He's really lucky." Some distant part of her is afraid she’s saying too much, but Eliot lights up and laughs like she’s caught him off guard, and she knows that kind of happiness is as rare for him as it is for her these days.

"You're right. We're gonna get him and bring him home and—” He sighs. “And you two will be together and he and I will... we'll be friends. That's enough."

"That's not enough,” Alice replies immediately. Because she knows this. She doesn’t even have to think about this one. “He loves you. And you love him."

The far-away look and shake of his head Eliot gives is one Alice is all too familiar with, and she doesn’t like it at all. 

"I turned him down. Before the whole,” he waves his hand over his body vaguely, “Monster thing. He's done with me."

"No. Look.” Alice can hear herself slipping into what her mother used to call her Know It All Voice, but she needs Eliot to understand. “I know what Quentin is like when he's in love. Like, really stupid in love. And that's how he was about you this whole time: obviously, stubbornly, completely in love with you."

Eliot takes a moment before saying anything. She’s prepared for him to disagree, but instead he asks, "What about you?"

The question surprises her. "I mean, I like you?”

Eliot rolls his eyes at her, but at least the look of self-flagellation is gone, even if it’s been replaced by something closer to skepticism than she likes. "No, I mean. What about you and Quentin being together?"

"Oh. Well. It puts things in perspective. Having him… die.” The word feels like ash in her mouth, and she takes another sip of her drink to wash it away before continuing. “Like, do I really care if he loves someone else too? I don't think so. Not so much. And I don't mean to assume, but.” She takes a bracing breath. “He told me about you and Arielle. And Teddy."

For a moment she's afraid she's gone too far, brought up something too painful or at least too personal, but then Eliot's expression softens. 

"I'm glad he told you. We were happy."

"I'm not, you know, saying it should always be like that,” she adds. “Or that. You know. You have to share him. I just. I was in his head. Kind of. When I was—different.” She doesn’t elaborate on what she means by that. If anyone gets it, she knows it’s Eliot. And for that, she’s incredibly grateful. “So I know how he loves. And it's _so much._" 

Alice really does know. Even if Quentin hadn't told her, one quiet night shortly after that kiss in the kitchen, about fifty years and their son and settling into the kind of happiness he never thought he could find, she still would have known about how he loved—without limit or reservation, entirely, fearlessly. Because she (or some part of her, at least) had lived _in_ him for a while, she knew about how he’d been in love with Eliot in small ways since the day they met, how that love had taken root and grown until it was as much a part of Quentin as his love for Alice, his love for his friends, his love for magic itself. Too much of what she'd learned as a Niffin had slipped away, but never that. 

Which is why she hasn't doubted his sincerity for a second when he'd told her about loving both Eliot and Arielle. She'd already felt how, even through the hazy mess of their first year, he'd loved both her and Eliot. And how before that, he'd loved both Julia and a man named James, even though he'd never been with Julia and had only kissed James twice, once in a dark, smoke-filled room at a party during a drunken game of truth or dare, and then again later that night on a fire escape, the man gone and Quentin's hands empty before he'd shaken off the surprise enough to even think to pull him closer. 

So she knows Quentin Coldwater was in love with Eliot Waugh until the moment he died. 

"It’s not a bad thing, sharing. It worked for us.” Eliot's voice snaps her back into her body, into the room, into the present. “But do _you_ want that? What does that even look like to you?" 

She shrugs. It’s a fair question, but unlike with most things in her life, the details haven’t bothered her too much. "We're both his… his lovers. And—" She stops at an indelicate snort from Eliot. 

"Sorry. Sorry. Ignore me. It's just. The way you say lovers, it's like we're in some 18th century drama or something." 

“We both fuck him,” she continues, glaring at him fondly. “We work out a schedule for the stuff that needs it. And for the rest of it, we just… figure it out as we go, I guess. I want us to all be happy. Whatever that looks like.”

“He’s still not, sometimes,” Eliot says softly. “Even when everything is good, when everything seems perfect. His brain still—it doesn’t let him just be happy, sometimes.” 

Alice closes her eyes against the sudden jolt of emotion and breathes. “I know,” she says. “But we can help him with that, too.” 

She feels Eliot shift on the sofa next to her. When she opens her eyes, her glass is full again, this time with a blue liquid in a color she can’t help but associate with Quentin. Eliot clinks his glass gently against hers, nodding but not saying anything more. She sips slowly, a sweet fruitiness cutting through the gin and vermouth, while they sit in silence. 

It’s early still, and she hasn’t had dinner, but Alice finds she’s unbelievably tired by the time her glass is empty. Normally she’d feel self-conscious about heading to bed at this hour, but it might be her best shot at getting her first decent night of sleep in—well. In a while. And she guesses it may be the same for Eliot. 

“I need to lie down.” She squints at nothing, makes sure her head is steady enough before standing and turning to look down at where Eliot is still sitting. “I”m going to get changed for bed. Would you please bring two glasses of water and come keep me company? Not—nothing weird. Just… platonic cuddling. If you want.” 

There’s a moment where she’s afraid Eliot is going to say no or even laugh at her, but then he smiles softly and nods. 

She heads to her bedroom as he heads to the kitchen, and by the time he comes in, two glasses of water in hand and wearing sleep pants and what Alice recognizes as an old tee shirt of Quentin’s, she’s already changed and under the blankets. He floats a glass over to the bedside table next to her before getting under the covers she’s pulled back in invitation. 

After she turns out the light with a gesture, they lie side by side, not touching but close enough that she can feel his warmth.

“So.” Eliot’s voice is a low half-whisper, like the darkness calls for secrets even though they’re the only ones around to hear them. “We go down there, get Quentin, kick some ass if anyone tries to get in our way, and bring him home. And then…” 

It’s the best bedtime story she’s ever heard, and she knows how the next part goes. 

“And then we love him, the best we can.” 

“And take care of each other,” he whispers back. “All three of us.” 

She reaches under the covers for his hand, and they fall asleep with their fingers entwined.

**Author's Note:**

> Written to help support Jason Ralph's Covenant House International Sleep Out Fundraiser. Check out [Drabbles4Jason](https://twitter.com/drabbles4jason) on Twitter to see how you can get one of your own. Thank you to [ohmarqueliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot) for being part of a great cause!
> 
> The title is from Atlas: Taste by Sleeping At Last. Thank you to [coldwaughtersq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwaughtersq) for looking it over.
> 
> Looking for more? Check out [nothing less than a work in progress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196208) as an unofficial-but-authorized sequel.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://wanderingmargo.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading!


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